


(Blood) Orange is the New Black

by ladyknightanka



Category: Hemlock Grove
Genre: Ableist Language, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Prison, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Prostitution, M/M, Minor Character Death, Neo-Nazi OC, Not As Bad As Canon, Racist Language, Rough Sex, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Threats of Violence, Use of Other Slurs, not as bad as it sounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 08:03:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3021446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyknightanka/pseuds/ladyknightanka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At first, Peter assumes his roommate is asleep. Curled up on the rightmost cot, head tucked between his knees, the man lies perfectly still, and if it hadn’t been for the garish orange of his jumpsuit, bright as fire, Peter wouldn’t have noticed him in the darkness.</p>
<p>But then, frost pale eyes rove to meet his, and the man - the boy - unfurls his long, lanky body just enough to smirk. With a lilting, almost imperceptible accent, he says, “I’d reconsider the hair.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	(Blood) Orange is the New Black

**Author's Note:**

> Almost all of the warnings are referenced rather than graphically described, and they play out as much like canon as is possible in an AU, but please heed them, just in case the content triggers you. Feedback is always welcome.

Still spitting a blend of Romani curses and English expletives, Peter is unceremoniously shoved into a dark prison cell. The gate clangs shut behind him. Panting heavily, gaze flicking every which way, he retreats against the bars like a cornered animal and cases his new ‘home’ of…well, he doesn’t know how long. That depends on his mother and Destiny, and right now, hope is a faraway land straight out of Nicolai’s old tall tales.

It’s a pretty standard cell, all told. A little smaller than the station lockup he’d spent the last couple of nights in, though that had gotten crowded fast. In this cell, there are two tiny cots pressed onto either side wall, with a dingy sink and toilet between them. 

The air smells like a faint mix of smoke and rust and sweat, and oddly enough, the barest whiff of something expensive, the sort of scent that would have ignited his thief’s instinct, the sort of scent that had contributed to his being here in the first place. Something, incongruously, like cologne. 

At first, he assumes his roommate is asleep. Curled up on the rightmost cot, head tucked between his knees, the man lies perfectly still, and if it hadn’t been for the garish orange of his jumpsuit, bright as fire, Peter wouldn’t have noticed him in the darkness. 

But then, frost pale eyes rove to meet his, and the man - the boy - unfurls his long, lanky body just enough to smirk. In a lilting, almost imperceptible accent, he says, “I’d reconsider the hair.” 

“W-what?” 

“The hair,” repeats the boy, condescendingly slow this time. “That sort of hair goes over a little _too_ well in prison, friend, if you catch my drift.” 

“I’m not your friend,” Peter grits out, and maybe it’s not the smartest idea to antagonize the person he’ll be spending most of his time with for the remainder of his sentence, but he can’t resist adding, “Besides, if your _lips_ don’t have a line waiting, I doubt my hair will.” 

His roommate merely laughs at the jab. Out of nowhere, a cigarette appears between the tips of his lean, spidery fingers, its firefly flame the only light in the dimness of the cell. The other end disappears into the plush cavern of his pink lips, which soon form a near orgasmic ‘o’ and blow out a perfect ring of smoke. 

Peter tries not to look at him when he says, “I’m Roman Godfrey,” as if they’re new neighbors chatting across a white picket fence, rather than the (blood?) stained and splotched floor below Peter’s battered sneakers. “And you must be Peter Rumancek.” 

“How the fuck do you know that?” demands Peter, unable to help a gawk. 

Roman shrugs a delicate shoulder, and proffers the hand with the cigarette expectantly, waiting for Peter to accept a hit. Peter stares for a second, then stomps over to the empty cot across from Roman’s. He crawls into it, baring his back. After a tense moment, he hears a murmured, “Suit yourself,” and then Roman Godfrey’s even breaths become the night’s lullaby, the lullaby for many nights to come.

Peter blames the smoke for the sting in his eyes. 

\- 

He doesn’t sleep much that first night, but the quiet of a few hours’ rest soothes him. By morning, he’s steeled himself, ready to get through his time in prison by keeping his head down as much as possible, even in the face of racist guards who sneer slurs whenever they see him.

New-found determination in mind, he skulks after Roman’s loping form into the communal bathroom, but when Roman calls over his shoulder, casual as you please, “Don’t drop the soap,” he decides to wash up in the sink rather than risking a shower.

Avoidance makes him late to breakfast, but he ends up near the end of the food line lacking any new bruises, and leaves it with an adequate amount of slop on his tray, so he considers it a small victory.

That is, until he hears a silken voice singsong, “Yoo-hoo, Rumancek! Over here!” 

Peter tries to keep his head bowed and shuffle along, but there’s sweat pooling under the arms of his jumpsuit, making him wish he had opted for a shower, after all. Surely, if he’d skipped breakfast altogether, he would have found the bathroom empty, safe. What’s more, he could have avoided _this_. 

A long, long leg unravels before him, ankle curling along his own. For a protracted instant, there’s nothing in the world but Peter’s rounded eyes and Roman Godfrey’s lily-white skin, taut across bone and stark beneath gaudy orange.

Then, he has to stiffen his arms to prevent his tray from flying into the barreled chest of a gargantuan fellow prisoner, who glares murder at him, pallid bald head beaded with perspiration over a _Wolfsangel_ symbol. “What are you, a retard?” 

“N-no, no, sorry,” says Peter, holding up one hand as a peace offering. 

There’s rage skimming below the surface of his fear, the wild sort of rage that sometimes beat against Peter’s ribs like his fists beat against the holding cell’s bars when he was first arrested, but he sees the guards purposefully looking away near the exits of the cafeteria, and knows he’ll get his ass handed to him if he keeps running his mouth – even if he doesn’t, probably – so the rage remains confined to the thrumming in his veins, rendered impotent.

“Oops.” Roman tuts from the table beside them, leg yet outstretched. His icy stare flickers between Peter and the giant, an impish grin flirting at one corner of his lips. “That was my bad, I think. We can forgive Rumancek the once, can’t we?”

The man averts his attention to Roman, thin mouth twisting in distaste. In contrast, Roman’s remains beatific and sweet, like Lucifer’s before the fall. A shaken Peter watches as the much larger prisoner tears his gaze from Roman’s, and stalks away without a word. 

“Jesus, take a load off,” Roman says, after a stilted series of seconds where Peter stands there, shaking. His voice shatters Peter's reverie. “You look like you’re ready to keel over.”

“No thanks to you,” Peter mumbles, but can’t deny that it’s true.

Almost unbidden, his weakened legs bring him to the empty spot across Roman, his knees bending gratefully to take a seat. He deposits his tray of slop, and unclenches his stiff, aching fingers, trying to quell the tremor in them. Roman’s smile broadens.

“See, now that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“Fuck off,” says Peter, sans heat, and Roman laughs.

\- 

“So,” Peter says one night, “what are you in for?” 

It’s hard to pretend any longer that Roman hasn’t won, to pretend that Peter isn’t fascinated by him, desperate to figure him out. There are too many unanswered questions, and he tells himself it’s smart to make nice, whether or not that's true. From his own cot, knees drawn up, Roman hums. Peter’s at least fifty percent sure he doesn’t imagine the smug undertone. 

He sighs. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours?” 

“As if I couldn’t guess the sort of trouble a gypsy gets up to,” answers Roman, upper lip curling into a smirk. Peter’s responding snarl only makes it grow. “Ooh, _scary_. I’d be careful if I were you, Rumancek. My last cellmate died.”

The growl withers in Peter’s throat, drowned in a stammered, “W-what?”

Roman glances at him, expression as placid and cold as a porcelain doll’s. And then, a laugh cracks his frigid mask in half. “Oh, your face just now was priceless!”

“Asshole,” says Peter.

Roman tosses him a sideways grin, but when Peter’s glare doesn’t abate, he seems to chasten himself. Clearing his throat, he runs a hand through his blond-brown coif and says, “Well, he _did_ die, but he brought that shank to the gut on himself, and I’m not one to get my hands dirty, as I'm sure you can tell. Not a nice guy, that one.” 

“And you are, I guess?” asks Peter, though he can’t help a wan smile. 

“I’m practically an angel,” Roman assures him, then pauses, and starts to count off on his slender fingers. “Well, aside from multiple counts of possession, distribution, and trafficking of illicit drugs, I suppose. Not that I needed the money. Truth be told, I’m rich as God, but sometimes my generosity gets the best of me. Just ask the hooker who turned me in.” 

“Well, shee-it,” says Peter. 

“Shee-it,” Roman agrees. 

And after that, they almost become friends. 

\- 

Roman’s mother loathes him. 

Well, ‘loathe’ is perhaps too strong a word for the meager contempt she spares toward him, but it’s obvious she doesn’t want him around her precious son. 

He sees her across glass the first time, like a doll in a box, and the way she shares Roman’s glacial beauty should draw him in, but never do her red, red lips form a smile when Peter is near. He tries to look away from her, to keep his eyes trained on Destiny and his own mother, who squabble over the phone to tell him how much they love him, who loves him more. 

Usually, it would make him smile, but Roman gets more time to roll his eyes at his mother than Peter gets to tell his he misses her, and gets yet more time to smile gently at his tall, silent sister. Peter gets the sneaking suspicion Olivia Godfrey plays some part in her son’s sovereignty within their gilded cage. 

“I will get you out of here, my love,” he hears her say as the guards roughly escort him out, her well-manicured hand pressed to the glass. Roman doesn't offer his own. His reply is a whisper to her cry, but no less impassioned. 

Later, Roman tells him, “Your family is just _adorable_. I would put them in my pocket, if these ugly jumpsuits had any.”

Peter says, “Wish I could say the same,” and Roman chimes a laugh. 

There’s levity in the air, and he accepts the cigarette Roman extends to him with little protest, tasting Roman on the tip, but a part of him lingers on Roman’s parting words to his mother: “I like things as they are.” 

And Peter is frightened to realize he almost feels the same. 

\- 

It doesn't get easier, exactly. 

Every time the light of the full moon creeps through the bars of their sole shared window, and the shadows it casts dance on the stained floor, Peter wants to tear his own skin off just to get away. 

But there is something about the heavy weight of Roman’s sultry stares, and the voracious smile he gets when he looks at Peter, like he wants to swallow him whole. There is something to being wanted that way, and something to the soft expressions Peter sometimes coaxes out of him, something to how striking he is, whether pliant or predatory. 

And when he pushes Peter against the tiled wall of a claustrophobic stall in the communal bathroom, his lush, perfect lips leeching against the steadily bruising column of Peter’s throat, when he whispers, “Well, aren’t you the prettiest little bitch?” there’s something to that, as well.

Peter gives as good as he gets. With Michelangelo’s fervor, he chisels the crescent moon imprints of his thicker fingers, his rough-cut nails, into the pale marble of Roman’s narrow hips. He can lose himself in Roman without fear, knowing that the haze of lust in Roman’s half-lidded eyes does little to make them less shrewd. 

Yes, there is something to the safety in catching Roman Godfrey’s attention, to becoming his possession, and it’s almost enough to make Peter forget there’s a world beyond this prison, beyond Roman, free of his grasp. 

Almost.


End file.
